


Roses

by mccoy17thspark



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Angst, Blood, F/M, Flowers, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, One Shot, Unrequited Love, i know very little about hanahaki disease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:42:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29905425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mccoy17thspark/pseuds/mccoy17thspark
Summary: It starts on the water. Napoleon pulls his precious Peril out of the water and suddenly can't think of anything but ice-blue eyes and drowning.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Kudos: 13





	Roses

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written anything in a while and I decided to post this because why not. I wanted it to be longer and I wanted to revise it, and maybe I will someday but for now I don't have the energy. Enjoy! Also please comment and tell me what you think! :)

It starts on the water.

Napoleon knows that Illya is showing off. He knows. Obviously, or he would have just jumped off the boat by know. No, no, that’s not his style. Napoleon watches from the truck as Illya charms the powerboat back and forth, a twist here and there as the guards chase after him. It’s something out of a slapstick, almost. Napoleon sighs, shakes his head a little and flicks on the radio. He may as well enjoy the show with a bit of music.

He takes a bite of his sandwich, wishing that he hadn’t had to get his outfit all wet, and watches as the boat explodes.

The water is as cold as it was ten minutes previously, the last sorrowful notes of some Italian love song echoing in his head. Illya is so, so pale, so limp, eyelashes fluttering against his cheek, waterlogged and shining. Napoleon’s chest aches.

He’s catching cold, he must be, what with the frigid water and all. It’s a shame. He never used to get sick from something as inconsequential as driving a truck directly into a frigid body of water. Not that he’s done it before, but still.

Later that evening, Victoria leans in close, tangling her infernal fingers in his still-damp hair, and whispers, “You smell like roses.”

***

There’s blood on his handkerchief and rose petals scattered around the hotel room. Napoleon thinks he’s going crazy.

White and orange, like Gaby’s favorite dress. Every time he coughs he brings up more petals, slick with his own blood, thinking of ice-blue eyes and drowning. Illya’s eyes ….

The man in question quirks an eyebrow at Napoleon. “Something wrong, Cowboy?”

He turns away to cough, stuffing the handkerchief in his pocket before Illya can see. He’s not fast enough. A few petals, white and orange, flutter down to the carpet of the hotel room his … co-workers … share. He clears his throat, feeling thorns scrape and catch at the back of his mouth. “Fine, thank you.”

Thorns. Christ.

***

Waverley’s expensive office. Napoleon would be cataloguing the room, looking for pretty trinkets to “borrow” for a bit, if he weren’t so worried about bleeding all over the furniture. The blood alone would be hard to explain. The petals would be damning, surely. One might look at their coloration and think, Gaby’s dress. Napoleon knows that’s what he thought, at first. And then he realized that no, it isn’t Gaby, it’s never been Gaby, and from there only one conclusion could be made.

Illya. Of course.

***

Napoleon tosses Illya the keys. The Russian catches them with a practiced ease, acknowledging Napoleon with a grunt, one arm around Gaby’s waist. Waverley, with his practiced smiles and his easy generosity, gave them a week’s worth of vacation in London before their next assignment.

The cacophony of color clashes horribly with the red of his blood and the refined gold tones of the hotel room. It looks like the rug is going to stain. Fuck. He coughs again, this time pausing to pull a strand of thorns from the depths of his throat. They catch and tear behind his Adam’s apple, pricking his callused fingers, painting them as red as the handkerchief.

He’s going to die, isn’t he.

There was the motorcycle, his legs around Illya’s waist, speeding through the brush. There was the helicopter, and the meeting with Waverley, and then the tickets to England by train and the week’s worth of vacation. And now Illya is next door with Gaby, doing who-knows-what, probably kissing, and Napoleon never thought he would be such a schoolboy about it but it hurts. It hurts worse than the roses growing from some twisted place deep inside him, worse than the shock machine, than being shot, _worse._ Worse than anything.

There’s a record on, in the next room over. He can hear it through the open balcony.

He imagines them dancing, Gaby’s dress white and orange like the blood-drenched petals at his feet. She’d be tucked into Illya’s strong arms. Illya’s face, buried in her shoulder. Illya’s eyes drifting closed as they swayed gently to the music, to the sounds of car horns and people on the street swirling together like fog, like a blind to shut out the world until it’s just them. Just them.

Napoleon holds his arms out, closing his eyes. Maybe, maybe he can pretend, it’s all he’s ever done … God. _God._ He hasn’t done this since he was fifteen, pining over the girl at the corner store, with the red hair. Was she blonde? He can’t remember. It doesn’t matter.

Oh, God.

They’re dancing, together, and Napoleon will die alone.

He’s pathetic, burying himself in drink, taking stupid risks for the stupid hope that his stupid Russian might notice him. He’s cowardly, refusing to acknowledge his feelings until today, until he hears secret music floating over to his balcony and can’t hide any longer. He’s a wreck, handsome enough for anyone but the one person who cares the most. He’s pathetic, stupid, cowardly, blind, ugly, worthless, and he’s going to die alone.

***

There are spots appearing in the corner of his vision, now, and this registers dimly in his brain as being _not good._

He doesn’t believe in God. He doesn’t believe in Heaven. He does believe in Hell, but only because he’s been there. Because he is there. Hell is thorns filling his lungs, white and orange like Gaby’s favorite dress, like a slap in the face. Hell is Illya’s hands on Gaby’s legs and music floating over to his balcony. Hell is hiding behind drink and guns and other people’s skirts. He knows it inside and out.

Illya kneels beside him. Gaby sits at his head, stoking his hair as he coughs, blood bubbling in his throat while white and orange roses fight their way out of his skin.

“What’s wrong?” and “Shhh,” and “Never seen this before,” and “He’s dying.”

And “Cowboy. Come on.”

And _“Please.”_

***

And then, nothing.


End file.
